


Ink on paper

by errantknightess



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Character Study, Drawing, Implied Relationships, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errantknightess/pseuds/errantknightess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The scratching of the nib against the paper has his skin crawling as another picture springs onto the page – a small, fragile boy, almost invisible under all the bandages that cover him; Lavi’s hand twitches frantically when he draws them all in, crossing out Allen’s frame until he disappears in the jumble. If only it was so easy to cross him out of the mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink on paper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the49thname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the49thname/gifts).



> Happy birthday! :3

Lavi’s pen glides across the pages, trailing inky paths that twist and crisscross under his hand. The dark liquid sinks into the lines and pools in the dots as the nib flutters from one point to another. In the faint light, the intricate symbols glisten like beetle shells, crawling one by one down onto the paper, their squiggly strokes and blocky bodies unlike any other alphabet known to him: the Bookmen cipher, devised centuries ago to guard the secrets of the clan. As a kid, Lavi used to trace those shapes almost religiously, committing every flick and curve to his memory. These days, he scrawls them without care – the quicker, the better. In the midst of this war there’s no time for tender touches.

The cluttered desktop had long ago vanished under the avalanche of papers, but his work is still far from done. Everything is running low – the ink, the light, and his patience, but Lavi only stops to refill the inkwell. The single black eye stares back at him as he sets it down on the counter. There is no colour better suited for the job. The stark contrast of black and white makes everything simple and clear. Every record he jots down must be first thoroughly drained of colour, stripped to the bare skeleton that later lands on the page, its angular letters jutting out like bones out of a shallow grave. It’s almost comforting. Things are only ever like that on paper, after all. Real life offers no straight lines, no clear-cut boundaries. It’s all dirty, muddy and gray.

Not that gray doesn’t have its own advantage. Gray is the fog, the shadow, a place to stand without committing yourself to either side. It’s relatively safe there, but the fog and the shadow can swallow you up, too, if you’re not careful. Lavi knows that; he’s seen the same gray in the colour of Allen’s eyes. He and Allen are similar this way, balancing on the border in everything they do. The only difference is that he must never choose a side, while Allen had sold his soul to both of them.

The symbols scatter from his brain. The path of his pen tangles, changes direction unexpectedly, and soon the page drowns in random scribbles. From the maze, his eye picks up a familiar shape, a sharp curve crossed with a wavy line. Lavi dips the pen in the inkwell once again and slowly, deliberately draws a small pentagram just above it. There it is: the mark of the curse the effects of which still haunt him at night. Damn his memory. The sight had only lasted for a few short moments, yet the toll it took on his mind and stomach stuck around for weeks on end. How hard must it be on Allen? Had he got used to it? Would it be possible at all to get used to something like that? Allen is strong, much stronger than he looks, but he’s just a kid… Then again, his eye is a useful weapon; if he chooses to face its horrors and puts it to good use, it might well grant him a few more years alive – even if it’s not a fair price to pay.

His pen starts to move quicker, sketching in rough strokes between the pentagram and the lines. The eye that soon opens on the page has a blank stare and a smudge of smeared ink underneath. It looks tired. Lavi bits down on his lip, his hand sliding over the drawing to fill in the blanks. With short, hasty movements, he traces the outline of the jaw, the pointed chin, the small nose and the bangs falling softly on Allen’s forehead. The ink doesn’t do him justice. If it wasn’t for the star-crowned mark splitting his face, no one could tell whose portrait it is. Lavi’s messy lines make the sketch much too dark – not at all like Allen, who almost glows whenever you look at him.

Disgruntled, Lavi shoves the paper aside and finds a new sheet. He starts again, with a picture fresh in his memory, trying to render the way Allen’s shoulders slump and how relaxed he seems when he naps on the train on the way back from the mission. As he rests with his head against the window, the golden afternoon light sifts through his hair and encircles him in a halo. Ink can’t capture that. Ink is not made for subtleties and midtones. It’s blunt and reserved; all it can do is draw a line.

And Lavi should have drawn a line a long time ago, back when he first saw him lying in the hospital bed after the Rewinding Town ticked to a stop. The scratching of the nib against the paper has his skin crawling as another picture springs onto the page – a small, fragile boy, almost invisible under all the bandages that cover him; Lavi’s hand twitches frantically when he draws them all in, crossing out Allen’s frame until he disappears in the jumble. If only it was so easy to cross him out of the mind. It shouldn’t concern him. Allen is just another figure in the record, just another drop of ink. But this ink stains his fingers and takes root under his skin, and though he may try to wash himself of it, Lavi can’t get it out.

So instead he lets it flow, in hopes that would help him sort it all out; because once he puts something on paper, it becomes black and white, and then it’s easier to look at it with dispassionate eye. Some things are safer to look at from the distance of the page. And so the page before him fills quickly with rough sketches and tiny portraits. Lavi lets himself get lost in the details: the gentle curve of Allen’s cheek as he averts his eyes, the crease between his eyebrows, the way his jaw sets and his Adam’s apple gets sharper when he gets all determined. Granted, none of it is a masterpiece. His untrained hand can’t catch up to his perfect memory, and the longer he keeps going, the more it frustrates him. The picture is clear in his mind, but once on the paper, it seems to lack _something_. There’s something off, some detail that escapes him, but Lavi can’t put his finger on it – so he starts over and over, trying to spot the difference. The ink is an ungrateful tool to work with. One wrong stroke can ruin everything, and tracing over his mistakes only makes them more glaring. Stains and smudges dot the page all over the place, and even the paper works against him, the thick grain distorting his linework.

When Allen suddenly walks into the room, Lavi nearly knocks the inkwell over.

“Are you working?” Allen asks, glancing at the mess on his desk. Lavi quickly gathers the papers to cover them before Allen can take a closer look. He doesn’t need to see this.

“You can call it that,” Lavi replies, fidgeting with the pen in his fingers. “Why, you got a better idea?”

“I’m headed for dinner,” Allen explains. “Do you want to join me? I thought you might want to. It’s getting late and you haven’t left your room all day.”

“Really? How the time flies.” Lavi scratches his temple under his headband. He’s not hungry, but it’s easier to agree than to explain the refusal. “All right, why not. Gotta stretch my bones a bit.”

Allen smiles.

“Great, then let’s go. I’m starving.”

Lavi stares at him for a moment.

“You go ahead.” He waves his hand, suddenly feeling as if someone had punched him in the stomach with a bag of sand. “I need just a second here and I’ll be right with you.”

Allen hovers uncertainly by the door, but then nods and leaves. As soon as he’s out, Lavi shuffles through the crumpled papers, scrambling for the one portrait he deems his best. Now that he looks at it, he can’t believe he had missed something so obvious time and time again. _Of course_ it looks wrong. Slowly, he reaches for the inkwell, dunking the tip of his pen into it, and carefully puts two tiny dots just in the corners of Allen’s mouth.

The newly formed smile shines brighter than the white of the page.


End file.
